Chaos and Sandstorms
by WritePassion
Summary: In Michael's past, he and Sam worked a mission in Kuwait. It was a mission full of danger, and the elements weren't on their side. See how Michael and Sam forged an enduring bond that bridged rank, branch of service, and time, deepening into brotherhood.
1. Chapter 1

_Burn Notice: I don't own it, I just like to play with it._

_A special thanks to my hubby (ex-Army MP) for answering my questions about ranks, protocol, and other details that were essential to getting this story off the ground._

**Chaos and Sandstorms**

By WritePassion

As Staff Sergeant Michael Westen walked across the sandy yard toward his commander's office, the sun beat down and threatened to sear him with its rays. Go right ahead and try. I'm from Miami, I'm used to it. He smiled with a cocky tilt to his lips. Funny how he wanted so badly to get away from home, specifically his abusive father, so he joined the military and wound up in a place that reminded him of what he left behind. At least they didn't have sandstorms in Miami. Like that should make him feel better. Get your mind off home, Westen. You're here to do a job, that's it. He glanced toward the west and saw clouds forming, gray clouds that promised a little relief. Maybe they'd get lucky and get some rain, only not enough to turn the hard packed sand into rivers of sandy sludge.

"Sergeant Westen," the female attache greeted him with a thin smile when he entered HQ.

"Sergeant Anderson," he returned the greeting with an absent tone, barely acknowledging her. His mind was on why he was there, not on the Colonel's assistant. She dressed in fatigues just like the guys, leaving everything else to the imagination. Her sandy blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she wore no makeup, and with her serious expression, he couldn't imagine she had much of a social life off duty.

"Colonel Tucker will be with you shortly. He's with Commander Jensen, the SEAL team commander, at the moment." Anderson went back to typing and spoke over the rat-a-tat of the keys. "Have a seat." She tilted her head toward a short row of folding chairs.

With a sigh, Westen selected the one closest to the door and farthest away from the Sergeant's desk, hoping he could hear the conversation on the other side of the flimsy wall. He heard the Colonel's voice, but he couldn't pick out the words. If he'd been alone, he would have taken one of those styrofoam cups sitting next to the coffee pot on a table near Anderson's desk, ripped off the bottom, and held it up to the door hoping to hear. He didn't like the idea that his commander was plotting things with the people he would be working with, while he sat outside in the figurative dark. Another voice rumbled in response to the Colonel, but again, he couldn't hear a thing.

A hot breeze swept in as the door opened and Westen turned toward it. He was expecting to see the rest of his team. Instead, a figure about his height stood in the doorway, his frame weighed down with a flak jacket, packs of ammunition and supplies wrapped around his belt along with a sidearm and a wicked looking knife in a sheath. The door slapped shut behind him as he stepped inside. The newcomer held his rifle in his right hand and removed his helmet with his left, hanging the chin strap over the knife handle. He ran his hand through a shock of dark brown hair, shook out the sand, and turned to give Anderson a charming smile.

"Lieutenant Sam Axe. I was told this was where I could find my CO and Colonel Tucker."

With a gasp and wide eyes, Sergeant Anderson stood at attention. "Sir! Yes, Sir. Commander Jensen is in with Colonel Tucker at this very moment, Sir," she responded stiffly. "Feel free to take a seat with Sergeant Westen, Sir."

Lieutenant Axe turned toward the short line of folding chairs. "At ease, both of you."

"Thank you, Sir. Would you care for a cup of coffee," she asked.

Westen noted she never bothered to ask him if he wanted anything. Rank had its privileges.

Axe replied, "No thanks. Just some water if you've got it. And get one for Westen. He looks like he could use it." He winked at Westen and sat as Anderson brought them both bottles of water. "Thanks." He rested his rifle against an empty chair, took the cap in his left hand, and cracked it open.

Westen joined him, and neither spoke while they soothed their parched throats. He watched Axe as he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and stretched his arms out on the two empty seat backs flanking him. He glanced toward the door.

"How long have they been in there," he asked.

Westen glanced at his watch. "About ten minutes at least, Sir."

"Sir, Colonel Tucker and Commander Jensen have been in a meeting for almost an hour. They should be out soon." Anderson was on top of things. She gave both men a warmer smile than she greeted Westen with, and she hesitated going back to her work, her eyes assessing them.

She's probably wondering how the Rangers and the SEALs got mixed up in a mission together. I've been wondering that myself. Westen coughed, just to make sure he hadn't absent-mindedly said that out loud, and to rid himself of some of the grit he breathed in while out on patrol that morning.

"Oh man, what I wouldn't give for a good mojito right now," Axe muttered.

Westen stared at him staring at his water bottle with longing. Axe must have felt his attention on him, because he looked back at Westen with narrowed eyes before downing the last of his water. He screwed on the cap, balanced it in his left hand, and tossed it like a football across the room. It hit the wall of the stucco hut that had been transformed into a command center, and with a plunk fell into the collection of other empty water bottles. Axe smiled in satisfaction.

"That's the arm that sent Analy High to the Michigan State Quarterfinals, Soldier. I still got it." He grinned and sat back in his chair again. "So, where are you from?"

"Miami, Florida," Westen replied. "Born and raised. I left when I was old enough to join the Army, or at least, my dad signed the paperwork."

Axe laughed. "Oh, so you're one of those. A holy terror, the folks couldn't wait to get you out of the house." He shook his head. "Please, tell me you're not on the Ranger team we're working with."

"I am," Westen replied, grinning. Axe may have outranked him, but that didn't mean he had to like the derogatory things he said. He doesn't know me, he's just making assumptions. If he only knew what I left behind, he'd realize it was a miracle my dad even agreed to let me enlist. With Westen out of the house, Frank Westen had no control over him. Yet somehow he gave in. He would never forget his mother's eyes when she gave him the papers and told him to leave before Frank changed his mind.

"Hey, kid, you okay?"

Axe had a good ten years on him, but it was hardly right to call him 'kid'. Westen really wanted to give this guy a piece of his mind, but he'd been in service long enough to know that was a sure-fire way to get himself into big trouble. Instead, he lied.

"No, Sir, nothing wrong. Just thinking about home."

"Yeah. I can't imagine why you'd wanna leave that paradise and come here," Axe declared and shook his head as he glanced around the dirt smudged walls and hard packed sand floor. "Me, if I lived in Miami, I'd be hanging out at the beach sipping beers and mojitos instead of dragging my sorry ass all over the Middle East." He paused and must have noted the homesick expression still on Westen's face, because his smirk turned into a frown. "Sorry. Didn't mean to make you long for home."

"I suppose you've been in the service so long, home means nothing to you," Westen bit back. He winced inside, afraid of how Axe might interpret his candor.

"I don't even want to get into that with you, Sergeant. It's none of your damn business." He scowled as he got out of his seat and paced to the office door, inclining his head toward it.

"Don't bother, Lieutenant. I already tried that."

Axe gave him a cocked smile that created a dimple in his left cheek. "You're a smart guy." In a soft voice he spoke and tilted his head toward Anderson, who continued to work as if they weren't in the room. "If she wasn't around, we could take some of those cups and listen in."

Westen noted a wedding ring on Axe's left hand that he hadn't seen before. No doubt he had a wife, maybe a family, back home waiting for him, and the bravado was a cover for the ache inside. He'd seen the signs of homesickness way too many times, and he'd also seen too many of those guys get into trouble and die. He hoped that Axe wasn't the kind who let his guard down thinking of what he left behind; but then, not too many of those guys made it to Lieutenant. Yeah, he had nothing to worry about. Axe was all about the mission.

Westen couldn't help but snicker. "Already thought of that too, Sir."

Axe laughed and returned to his seat. "Yeah, this is going to be an interesting assignment. I can see that already." He rubbed his pronounced chin where a day's worth of stubble sprouted. Axe had movie star looks, and that chin reminded Westen of an actor from the golden age of cinema. He couldn't put his finger on who had such a remarkable feature, but if he thought about it long enough, maybe...

Westen's thoughts were interrupted by the door opening, letting in more sand and blinding sunshine. The rest of his team had arrived, and they addressed each other until one of them realized an officer was in the room.

"Ten hut!" The men, five in addition to Westen, stood at attention.

"At ease," Axe said in a lazy tone, and he moved his rifle to allow one of them sit in the chair to his left. One man was left to stand, and he stared at the others, feeling uncomfortable. Axe stood and said, "Take my seat, Soldier."

"Sir?"

"No problem. I'm getting tired of sitting around anyway." He glanced at his watch. "Sergeant, you said they'd be out in a little while, and that was about twenty minutes ago."

Anderson stopped typing and looked up at him. "Sir, I'm sorry. They've been delayed. I can check if you'd like me to."

"Nah, don't bother." Axe shouldered his rifle and stepped to the exit, looked out the window, and turned back.

At that moment, the office door opened and the Colonel and Commander shook hands. Commander Jensen exited the office, and Axe stood at attention, along with everyone else in the room. Jensen said, "At ease." The whole room went into a more relaxed posture. "Axe, where's the rest of the team?"

"Sir, they're still preparing for the mission," Axe responded with a stiff, no-nonsense tone. "We had a snafu with supplies, but the helos should be fully loaded by now, Sir."

"Alright. We'll meet them at the chopper pad." He turned and addressed Colonel Tucker. "Your men will be ready at nineteen thirty hours?"

"We'll be at the pad on the dot," Tucker replied with a nod.

"Excellent. We'll see you then." Jensen slipped his helmet on and lumbered toward the door. At six-seven, he towered over everyone in the room and had to duck in order to leave without banging his head on the frame.

Axe put on his helmet and followed without another word to Westen or anyone else. As Lieutenant Axe said, Westen had the same thought that this was going to be an interesting mission. Now, it was time to find out what it was. Tucker ushered them into his office and spent the next hour and a half orienting them to the terrain and what the mission would entail. He gave them the latest intelligence on insurgents in the area, the believed strength and diversity of their weaponry, and all the other standard details that went into preparing the men for an extraction and raid in Kuwait near the Iraqi border.

"Alright men, you have two hours before we leave," Tucker said. "Go get yourselves some chow and prepare. This is going to be rough, and we have to be ready in case this thing goes south. And remember, if things go bad, we wipe the slate. You and the SEALs are the only ones who should walk away knowing what went down. Leave no evidence behind."

"Sir, yes, Sir!" They answered as a group, stood, and filed out of the room with Westen among them. This was a heavy mission, and some of the team went to their bunks to prepare with prayers or writing letters home, just in case. Westen was scared, but he wouldn't let anyone see it. He simply gritted his teeth and moved forward. He refused to fall into the mentality that they might die on this mission, because in his mind, that was like willing it to happen. If he imagined himself to be bullet proof, as long as he did all the right things at the right time, he would survive. Hopefully everyone else would join him, even that cocky son of a gun named Lieutenant Sam Axe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

At nineteen twenty hours, Westen headed for the helo pad. He arrived the same time as Staff Sergeant Gibson and Corporal Diaz. By the appointed time, the other three arrived, Lieutenant Ryman leading the other two non-comms, Pendleton and Busch. The SEAL team stood assembled in a line with Lieutenant Sam Axe on one end speaking with Lieutenant Commander Jensen. At the sight of the Rangers, he muttered something to Jensen, and the Lieutenant Commander turned to greet them.

"Lieutenant Ryman. I see all your men are here, and right on time," he said with a glance at his watch. "Let's load up and get to it."

With the Ranger team consisting of six men, and the SEAL team of six that included their commander who would function as team leader, the men split up to board two MH-6 Little Birds, mixing both teams together in an attempt to build camaraderie between the branches. Knowing that they were stronger together versus against each other, the men followed the spirit of the arrangement, blended, and thought about their business rather than personal prejudices.

Westen wound up in the chopper with Axe, Pendleton, Diaz, Cooper, and Washington. He sat between the SEALs on one bench, and Pendleton and Diaz wound up next to Axe across from him. The blades sped up and the Little Bird rose in the air. As they turned north east and flew away, the camp lights turned into dots on the horizon. A Chinook took off shortly after them. Its job would be to pick up both teams and the people they were assigned to extract from the compound, a CIA operative and two assets. The Little Birds would stay for support. To the west, the dark clouds still hung in the sky, teasing them but never quite making it to the camp.

"Looks like that rain is going to miss us," Westen said aloud.

"It's probably falling on our base camp, turning it into a mess," Axe responded with a smirk. "Or it's a sandstorm. Sometimes those things look like rain clouds, you know. If it's a sandstorm, your guys are lucky. Let's just hope it doesn't meet up with us when we get to our destination."

"Yeah, you're right." Westen gave the dark mass one last look. He would have sworn it was a batch of rain clouds. A sandstorm was never good; with light fading and visibility a challenge as is, a sandstorm would make their mission almost impossible. Westen hoped that they could get in and out before anything came their way.

In the fading light he saw Axe pressing the headphone closer to his ear, listening to something. He nodded and yelled over the din. "Men, we've got weather reports that there's a storm converging on our LZ. High winds could produce a sandstorm, so it's even more imperative that we get in, do the job, and evacuate as soon as possible. Understood?"

"Sir, yes Sir!"

"As soon as the skids hit the sand, be ready for opposing fire. Intelligence reports that there's troop movement nearing the compound."

Westen didn't like the sound of that. At the moment, the team outnumbered the insurgents by only a couple, if the intelligence information was correct. With enemy troops coming in, sneaking over the border, things would get ugly. He studied the faces of the other men. They were stony, but he knew Pendleton. He looked calm and collected on the outside, but inside he was probably reciting a hundred Hail Marys. His thumb and index finger knuckle rubbed the St. Christopher's medal hanging with his dog tags around his neck. Diaz looked like he could have joined him if he wasn't an atheist. Westen glanced at Washington and Cooper. Both men were like statues, barely blinking as they manned the big guns at the open doors.

Axe appeared to be just as stoic, sitting with his back against the wall between himself and the cockpit. His eyes roved the ground below as if he had x-ray vision that could pierce the coming night. Westen did the same, just killing time until they reached their destination.

The choppers slowed their forward progress and lowered to the ground in a false sense of slow motion. The sand played tricks like that all the time. Westen knew that from other missions. A rush of adrenaline pumped through his veins as the skids bumped on the hard surface beneath the transient sand slithering along with the wind, the chopper blades kicking it up into a tan cloud that choked their lungs and stung their eyes. He anticipated the smattering of gunfire, but to everyone's surprise, the Little Birlds landed with no resistance. He unbuckled his seat belt and launched out of the starboard side of the chopper with the others, crouching low to avoid the blades, and reaching the rendezvous point with no gunfire.

At the signal from Lieutenant Commander Jensen, the men surged forward toward the complex and fanned out without speaking. Through night vision goggles, Westen searched for insurgents, but he didn't see anyone. Something was wrong. Maybe they had the wrong location, or their packages had been moved. He reached the fence and peered over the stucco wall. A faint light glowed through a window covered by a piece of burlap thrown up as a makeshift curtain. Its dappled light spilled out onto the ground. Someone tapped Westen's arm and he looked. Axe held up two fingers, pointed toward his eyes and outward to the north, and Westen saw two insurgents working the fence line. He turned his head to the right and spied another standing outside a shed smoking a cigarette. Westen signaled to Axe that he saw one.

Gunfire broke out to the north, along with shouting. "Breach the wall. Breach the wall!" The order came, and twenty feet away, the explosive charge flashed and blew a hole in the wall. Half the team ran for it and entered while another hole was blown farther up. Westen fired at two guards who came running from behind a building. Axe was with him, and together they took the two down.

"Come on, Westen, we've got a clear path to that bungalow," Axe called out to him.

Westen nodded. "I'm with you." He and Axe ran toward the building where the light shone through the window. Barging around the corner, the two skidded to a stop and into a guard's line of fire. Before he could get in two shots, Axe had him down on the ground bleeding out. "Nice shot."

"I've had a little practice," Axe retorted with a cocky smile.

Westen gave him a grin and headed for the door. They entered the building and found the room empty. But the lamp light turned them into easy targets, and a barrage of bullets came at them from another room. Westen dove for the floor along with Axe. A couch protected them somewhat, but the enemy knew where they were. In no time, they would be trapped.

Axe pulled his side arm and fired at the lamp, and the room darkened except for the inconsistent flare from guns and grenades outside. The gunfire inside stopped.

"They're reloading," Westen said as he heard the distinct click of a magazine being disengaged from an automatic, probably an AK-47. It didn't matter the type of weapon; the fact was that the shooter was vulnerable for the moment.

"Let's go," Axe exclaimed and popped to his feet in one fluid motion, firing toward the entrance to the room from which the firing came.

Voices cried out in pain, assuring them that they hit someone. Axe made it to the door frame, held his weapon at the ready, and scooted to the opposite side while Westen took his position. Gun barrels leading, with the aid of night vision they found three insurgents. Two lay bleeding on the floor. The CIA operative sat with his back to the wall, the assets flanking him, every one tied up and blindfolded. The SEAL and the Ranger assessed the situation in a matter of a couple of seconds, and both came up with the same conclusion. They aimed at the insurgent who aimed at them and fired. He bucked with each bullet that struck him and his body relaxed and slumped to the side, his weapon falling away from his right hand, and an object rolling out of his left hand.

"Grenade," Axe shouted. He dropped his weapon and dove into the room to pick up the CIA operative, slinging him over his shoulder. He turned and found Westen still in the doorway. "Westen, get the lead out!"

"Axe, hurry!"

He was almost to the door and Westen made it two steps into the room when the grenade exploded. The blast threw shrapnel in all directions and the blast forced him back into the wall. Axe and the operative dropped to the floor like a couple of wet sandbags. Westen saw double in his goggles and waited for his vision to clear before he did anything. When he could see again, he stared at the assets. He didn't need to cross the room to know that they were dead. Without thought to any injuries he might have, he worked on pure adrenaline to cross and check on the CIA agent. The grenade ripped his back to shreds. No pulse at the throat. He too was dead. Swallowing hard, he pushed the agent off of Axe, rolling his body to the side in order to reach the downed SEAL. He was breathing. Westen could feel his chest rise and fall in shallow movements beneath the flak jacket. A pulse beat at his neck. At first glance, he didn't see any injuries to his head or torso thanks to all the protection, so he checked lower.

A piece of shrapnel tore into Axe's fatigue pants leg and stuck in the side of his thigh. If it was deep and large enough, the piece could have severed some major vessels and broken his fibula. That was the worst case scenario. Westen probed the wound with careful movements. He cursed the night vision goggles for making it difficult to see fine detail. He touched something that hurt, because Axe moaned and tried to move his leg away.

"Hang on, Lieutenant. You've been hit with shrapnel." Axe didn't respond. Westen let out a deep breath. He was probably unconscious. "I've gotta get you to the Chinook." He scooted over to Axe's face and slapped it with a gentle strike. "Hey, Lieutenant, can you hear me? No napping on the job, man. I need you to wake up. Come on."

Axe groaned and his head moved, rising from the dirt. The night vision goggles had been knocked off and skittered off to the side, so he blinked and tried to see in the dark without them. "Westen? What... what happened?"

"You don't remember? A grenade went off."

"Oh, that must be why my ears are ringing," Axe muttered.

"I need you to help me get you up," Westen urged as he slung his weapon across his back and put his arm around Axe's torso to pull him to his feet. Axe pushed off the floor and stood, but his leg couldn't take his weight and he crumbled in Westen's arms. "Woah, woah! No, you're not going down. Come on, I'll drag you if I have to in order to get to that chopper. You hear that sound?" He paused. The shooting had stopped, but the unmistakable whip of the Chinook helicopter blades echoed off the building. "We're evac'ing, and we're not leaving without you, Lieutenant Axe."

Axe nodded and forced himself to stand on one leg. Westen got under his right arm, allowing the man to use him as a crutch. He moved as fast as his burden would allow and exited the building, hurrying across the compound toward the helicopters outside the walls. The Little Birds hovered to cover the Chinook that rested on the ground. The surviving team members ran toward it and got inside.

Diaz cried out, "Westen. Hurry up!"

He beckoned him to come, and Westen picked up the pace, nearly dragging Axe along. He stumbled on something and together they went to their knees. Axe stopped his fall with his hand.

"Westen, just go. I'm holding you back."

"No, I'm not leaving without you, Lieutenant. Get up." Westen pulled on him with urgency, almost verbally pleading with him to get to his feet.

In the cool arid night, Axe was sweating profusely as he pushed himself to stand on his good leg. Westen repositioned himself under the other man's arm and began the arduous task of getting him to the helicopter. Out in the desert to their right, gunfire erupted. A pickup truck came speeding down the road with men hanging onto the back of the cab, firing with their other hands. Westen took a bullet in the flak jacket and dropped Axe, and he hit the dirt to play dead.

With him and Axe down, the insurgents' attention switched back to the helicopter. The men on the chopper shot back at the enemy on the truck, the staccato of bullets rattling the unsettled air. Westen looked up to see one of the truck passengers sighting a rocket launcher. Horrified, he wanted to scream out a warning, but it would be too late and give away that he was still alive. Seconds later, the rocket blazed a trail of fire as it streaked toward the helicopter, hit the Chinook, and blew it into millions of pieces. A fireball shooting up into the sky lit up the area like it was day.

From where he lay, Westen watched mute in horror as his teammates and the SEALs, along with the pilots of the Chinook died in the explosion and blaze. One of the Little Birds fired on the truck, obliterating it with one shot, but not before a second passenger fired a rocket, striking the other Little Bird. Westen could feel the heat from the truck. He had to rise and get Axe moving so the last Little Bird could pick them up. He heard the blades power up and the helicopter rose in the sky, turning away from the scene.

"Hey! Wait!" Westen jumped up and waved his arm, running toward the opening in the wall. He made it outside the compound, but he was too late. The Little Bird disappeared into the night. The only sounds were the whoosh of flames around him and his own labored breath. The Chinook and Little Bird debris mixed into one pile of hot molten metal on the sand. No one could have survived. He stifled a sob. Have to stay strong. Lieutenant Axe needs me to keep my wits about me. He swept the area with his gaze and saw no other figures moving about, so he returned to the compound to check on the people left behind.

Axe was still alive but unconscious. He found Pendleton bleeding from a gut wound. It was so bad, Westen was afraid to move him. Pendleton looked up at him, shivering from shock and the cool night air.

"M-Michael," he whispered. With their differences in rank, Pendleton never used his first name. "Mike, p-p-please help me. Make it stop."

"I don't understand," Westen said. "What do you want me to do?" He held onto Pendleton's hand, if only to reassure him that someone cared. He was trained in field medicine, but this was beyond his reach.

"Shoot me. Do something." Pendleton gasped. "It hurts... too... much."

"No, PeeDee, I can't do it," Westen spoke through gritted teeth. "Hang on, they'll send another chopper back. The medical team will be back, and they'll take care of you. I pr..."

"Don't promise, Westie. Don't... don't promise... something... you can't... deli..." Pendleton's breath hissed out of his lungs, and the heart that once beat beneath Westen's hand stilled.

Of all the guys in his unit, Pendleton was the one he gravitated to. He and Westen were similar, growing up in homes where abuse was the norm, striving to be better than that and escaping when they could. Pendleton had a future. He was going to be an operative when he got out of the service. This couldn't be happening to him. Westen checked and found no pulse. He squeezed his hand, but it already felt cool to the touch.

"Come on, PeeDee, don't die on us. We're counting on you to make it back to base." Westen beat on his chest, but the flak jacket was in the way of forcing his heart to start. He ripped away the velcro on the armor and stripped away Pendleton's blouse, pressing his hands into his chest. "Live, PeeDee. You're stubborn. Don't let it be for the wrong reasons!" He did chest compressions and breathed into him until he saw spots before his eyes, but in the end it was useless. Pendleton was gone.

He bowed his head and patted his friend's shoulder. Without a word he stood and felt like a zombie as he moved about the compound checking on friend and foe alike. He found two more of his team and Washington and Lieutenant Commander Jensen. Every one of them was dead. So were the insurgents, but that brought him little comfort. Westen returned to where he left Axe, and he was surprised to find him sitting up against the building where the CIA operative and his assets lost their lives.

"Hey, you're awake," Westen said as he crouched near and smiled at Axe.

"Yeah," Axe replied. He finished tying a bandana around his thigh where it bled and asked, "What's the count?"

"Five SEALs, five Rangers. At least fifteen insurgents, maybe closer to twenty. All dead. We're the only ones left."

"Oh crap, Westen." Axe groaned and pushed his hair back. "You got a working radio on you?"

"No. Do you?"

"Mine isn't picking up any chatter. I tried calling out, but I don't know." He shrugged. "If anybody heard it, I have no clue."

"I'm guessing that unless we have troops within a mile of here, no one will have picked up on that signal."

"Except more insurgents," Axe breathed. "We've gotta get farther in country. We're too close to the Iraqi border."

"I know. But you're not up for it."

"Bull. I'll make it if I have to crawl back to base," Axe said, his dark eyes flashing in the firelight, full of determination. "Just get me up, Westen, and quit jawin'. We're moving now, while we still have time."

Aye, aye, Lieutenant, Westen thought as he got Axe to his feet. The injured man hobbled along, taking as much of the burden as he could, surprising Westen with his resolve. Maybe there was some hope for them to escape and return to base, or at least somewhere that their forces could more easily find the two remnants of Operation Sandstorm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Westen packed for survival, scrounging around the huts for supplies, and when he felt sufficiently prepared for a hike in the desert, he helped Axe rise. A crooked branch served as a crutch, leaving Westen free to carry the supplies.

"Westen, I can take some of that," Axe protested as he hobbled alongside him.

"No, you've got enough to worry about with that leg. How is it, anyway?"

Axe hesitated and looked down at the large stain running down his pant leg. "Uh, it was bleeding pretty good there for awhile, but I got it under control. Don't worry, it'll be fine." He patted the thick wad of gauze he packed the wound with before wrapping it. He tried to hide the wince of pain, but Westen saw it.

"We'll keep an eye on it." Westen consulted his compass and pointed toward the horizon. "We need to go that way. Considering where we dropped, there should be a highway in that direction in about ten miles."

"Ten miles, huh?" Axe took a couple breaths. "I can do that. No problem."

"Yeah." He started walking and kept his pace slow enough for Axe to keep in step.

It was impossible to miss that Axe was still sweating, and the cool air made him shiver. He was losing blood from the shrapnel wound, but Westen didn't dare extract it and risk allowing him to bleed out. After an hour, Westen stopped and let him down onto a small dune. The wind had picked up and sent fingers of twisting and turning sand slipping over the desert floor like snakes on a rampage. Axe's breathing was rapid and shallow. He was definitely going into shock.

"Westen, you'd be smart to set up a tent or something for me here, and you hump it back to base. In the morning, they can send a chopper to find me," Axe said between breaths, the effort causing him to sway. He supported himself with his hands back behind himself, locking his arms.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Lieutenant? I'm not leaving you. In case you haven't noticed, the wind is picking up. That storm is coming, and I'm not gonna leave you out here in the middle of the desert all by yourself."

"Just 'cause I'm a SEAL, that doesn't mean I don't know how to survive a sandstorm, Sergeant Westen," Axe growled. He threw his head back and gasped for air.

"Hey, hey, just lay down for a minute, okay?" Westen placed his arm behind Axe and in a softer tone said, "Come on, just for a little while."

"Okay. I'm, uh, thinking maybe a little break might be a good idea."

"Yeah." Westen helped Axe lay on a section of flat sand, and the Lieutenant closed his eyes.

His hand hovered over Axe's chest for a few moments, and when he determined that the man was either unconscious or just asleep, Westen rooted in the pack of medical supplies until he found a thin blanket and covered him with it, tucking the ends around his body.

The wind sighed and whispered, the loose sand hissing across the desert surface. The sandstorm was coming, and it would be foolish to try to keep moving in it. So Westen pulled out a small tent that was built for two, but that was pushing it in his opinion. He didn't have much choice, however, and so he erected it and threw the gear inside. A gale force wind pushed him forward, and he stumbled over Axe's legs. The wind howled and whipped at him.

"Hey, come on, Lieutenant. Help me out here, will ya," Westen yelled over the roar as he slapped Axe's face, not as gently as the last time. He'd never hit an officer so many times, or ever to his previous knowledge, at least not while sober. He didn't care if it got him into trouble. This was an emergency.

Axe stirred and spit the sand that flew into his face. "Sand... sandstorm."

"Yeah, we've gotta get into the tent."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Axe exclaimed as he seemed to get a second wind and crawled for the structure. It flapped and fluttered in the wind. "Do you think this thing'll hold up?"

"Once we get in, it'll stay down," Westen answered. He helped Axe inside and he followed, zipping it shut behind him.

"Wow, it's dark in here. I know, brilliant observation." Axe shivered again.

"Here's the blanket. Put this over you, Sir, and I'll tuck it down to trap your body heat."

"Thanks, Westen. If you hadn't insisted on sticking with me... I'd probably be breathing sand back at that compound right about now."

"Not a problem. Just like you SEALs, I don't leave a man behind." Westen smiled in the dark.

"Thanks." Axe breathed and settled into the covers. "Someone... on that chopper... didn't get the memo." His breathing evened out, and in a short while, Axe was asleep.

Westen was still running on adrenaline. There was no way he could slumber between that and the howling and buffeting wind outside. Now and then a gust attempted to lift the tent. Seams creaked and the nylon flapped like a loose shingle in protest against the gales. He checked his watch. An hour had passed but the storm showed no signs of stopping. The average time of a sandstorm was three to four hours, or so he'd been told in training. That left maybe three more to go. I should try to settle down and get some rest. When this ends, Lieutenant Axe and I need to be on the move again before daylight. We have to find a settlement or some place where we can radio for help.

After two and a half hours of constant beating and no sign that it was letting up, Westen finally lay on his side next to Lieutenant Axe and fell asleep. It was a light sleep, however, his ears in tune with the Lieutenant's breathing against the backdrop of the swishing sandstorm. At one point he reached out, not thinking about what he was doing, and touched the man's forehead. It was warm, too warm. Westen woke with a start. Axe had stopped sweating, even though he was warm. His own lips were severely parched. Water. They both needed water desperately.

Westen planned ahead, grabbing several canteens that he found in the compound, in addition to his. Axe had one of his own. He opened one and sniffed, then tested a little bit. As far as he could tell, it was just plain water. Westen drank until he felt sated. Then he brought out a cloth, wet it, and pressed it to Axe's forehead. He moaned. Westen moved the cloth around his face and stopped at his lips which moved, attempting to drink.

"Okay, Lieutenant, are you awake?"

"Mmmhmm," Axe replied.

"Great. I'm going to help you up here a little so you can take a drink."

"I'm fine, Westen. I... I can do this." His voice was as shaky as his body as he rose up on his elbows and let Westen tilt the canteen. Some of the water ran down his front, but he didn't seem to care. He fell back with a groan, and Westen stopped pouring.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Axe went back to sleep, and Westen did the same.

Waking up five hours later, the storm still raged. Westen wouldn't have known that anything was different except for the time on his watch, and that it wasn't quite as dark as before. Some sunlight filtered through the thick sand. Maybe that was a good sign, that the storm was coming to an end. He rolled backwards a little and discovered that a pile of sand formed on the lee side of the tent. He reached over Axe and pushed on the wall, finding no resistance. At least they didn't have to worry about being buried alive.

Axe opened his eyes and looked at Westen. "Hey, I can see you, kind of."

"Me too."

"What time is it?" Axe tried to rise, but Westen pushed him back.

"Just lay there, Sir. It's eight thirty. It was about twenty-one hundred hours when this thing started."

"We slept almost twelve hours?" Axe looked up at him with disbelief in his eyes.

"Yes, Sir. You did, anyway. I tried to stay awake."

"Ah." Axe hesitated. "Westen, how bad is it? My leg, I mean."

"You've got a piece of shrapnel the size of a pocket watch in your leg. I'm not pulling it out, just in case you're asking. And I don't care if you outrank me, I'm not doing it."

To his surprise, Axe laughed, the sound rising up and lasting longer than it should have, ending in a wheeze and a violent cough. He fought for breath until unconsciousness took hold again, offering a temporary relief.

Westen spent the day monitoring Axe's vitals, feeding him water and bits of food when he would take it. He used some of the packs to bolster him to a half sitting position which seemed to help him breathe better. Now and then he pulled up a bandana to protect against the sand that the wind drove through tiny pinholes that the grit created in the nylon. Westen did the same. Axe was still feverish, and he had no doubt that it was because the wound was infected. During one of the Lieutenant's less lucid moments, he rolled him to his side to remove the bandages and inspect the wound. The flesh around the metal was red and puffy, with torn muscle showing beneath the ragged layers of skin.

There was a reason Westen never became a medic even if he had the smarts for it. But these were desperate times, so he bit his bottom lip and went to work. He braced himself for the fight Axe was sure to put up when the antiseptic touched his wound. He poured a copious amount onto a gauze pad and touched the skin, just a light contact. Axe didn't move, so he braved touching it more. Axe hissed in pain and gasped, thrashing about as if he were drowning.

"Sir, settle down! I'm just trying to help you," Westen blurted out as he fought to immobilize the leg that kicked out and tried to keep him away. The blood curdling scream coming from the man would have terrified Westen if he wasn't in rescue mode. Blood seeped out of the wound again, and he'd had enough. Throwing rank to the wind, he yelled, "Knock it off! Stay still or I'll shoot you up with something that'll put you out. You want that?"

Axe stilled, an arm shielding his face that he buried in the pack of supplies. His shoulders shook, then evened out as he gasped for breath. Westen laid a hand on his shoulder, a memory flashing before his eyes of comforting his brother Nate after their father beat him severely. Nate was never in the kind of pain Axe had to be experiencing, but his sense of empathy was the same.

"It's okay. I'm gonna help you get through this," Westen said with a soft voice.

He heard a muffled, "Thanks." Then Axe raised his head and turned his red eyes to Westen's. "Do it."

"I'm not pulling this shrapnel out," Westen countered.

"No. Just... just fix it up the best you can. Don't mind me screaming." He tried a shaky smile. "I'll bear it, and if I pass out, well, I pass out. Not like I'm doing much right now anyway, except being a thorn in your side."

Westen chuckled. "You know there's a sandstorm out there right now, so like it or not, I'm kind of stuck here."

"You wouldn't have been if you'd left me back at the compound and gone on your way alone."

"That never would have happened, Lieutenant. We're the only survivors, and I wouldn't dream of leaving you behind."

Axe nodded, understanding that he and Westen were cut from the same cloth. "I'm glad you didn't leave me back there. I promise I'll try not to jeopardize your life as well as mine."

The corner of Westen's mouth tipped up. "Don't worry about it. Let's just get through this storm and worry about the rest later."

"Yeah."

Westen could tell that Axe was tiring again, so he silenced himself and went to work on his leg. He stopped the bleeding with pressure, and he had to hand it to Axe for doing his best to handle it without going ballistic. He glanced at the face of agony, scrunched up in pain, his teeth clenching on the bandana. By the time he wadded up gauze and ran a band around to secure it, Axe was unconscious again. Westen sighed, tied the ends of the bandage, and sat back in the little bit of space he had, his bloodied hand sweeping across his forehead in an absent move. He hated to use the water to wash up, but he had no choice. He used it sparingly, wetting a cloth and scrubbing his hands with it.

Day turned into night, and still the storm howled outside. When Axe wasn't awake, he spent the time reading a novel he found in Axe's gear. That someone would bother to bring a book along on a mission mystified him. The corner had been shorn away by a bullet, so perhaps it was a good thing he brought it. It saved him from getting shot. He marked his place and checked his patient's forehead for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was hot, not just warm, and he was sweating. He found a thermometer in the medical gear and grew even more concerned when it read one-hundred-two.

If his temperature isn't better in the morning, I don't care if that storm is still going on. We're getting out of here. He wet a cloth and applied it to Axe's face. He wasn't much for praying, but Westen glanced up at the tent roof and without a spoken word asked for help.

"'Manda, 'Manda, don't... don't leave... stay..."

Axe's voice woke him from an unexpected deep sleep. The other man thrashed, causing the tent to shake and buck more severely than the wind. If he wasn't careful, its already fragile walls would rip. Westen threw a leg over Axe's and pressed down with his hands on his shoulders.

"Lieutenant, hey, wake up, it's just a dream. Come on, man. Wake up."

He wouldn't listen, but at least he stopped moving. His breath was quick and shallow. The skin exposed at his blouse opening was just as warm as his head. It frustrated Westen, because he didn't have the resources necessary to cut the fever. He worked some acetaminophen down Axe's throat with a little water, and he settled down for a short while.

"Oh, babe, help... falling... no, no. No!" Axe called out for someone named Manda again, and Westen spent the rest of the night using up a canteen of water to give him some relief.

He sat in the dark, his hands on Axe, one curled around his wrist, and the other over his head. It was the easiest way to monitor him without using precious battery power on a flashlight. The man's pulse raced beneath his fingertips, and he knew another wave of hysteria was coming. Then he moved and barred him from jostling around too much. The Lieutenant already caused his wound to bleed, and they were getting low on gauze.

"Tomorrow, Lieutenant, we're getting out of here, whether or not that storm is finished."

Axe's breath came out ragged as he slept. The sand was seeping inside again, so Westen put the bandana up around his face before applying his own. He closed his eyes, since he couldn't see anything anyway. The grit felt as if it coated his eyeballs, drying them out and scratching the corneas. He tried to think of something sad just to make his eyes water and wash away the foreign grains. His mind lit on his mother. He would never forget the look on her face when he left home. She was mad at his father for signing those papers, he was sure of it.

"Michael, are you sure you want to do this," she asked, standing before him with a cigarette in one hand, the thin trail of smoke reaching to the ceiling, adding more carbon to the once white surface. Her face was frozen in a mask of worry lines. "I'm going to miss you, honey, so much. If you needed to get away from your father so badly, we could have come up with another plan."

"No, Mom. I need to do this, not just to get away from him." He swallowed. "I need to do this for me."

"Why?" The word came out as part of a wail of motherly sadness.

It killed Michael to see her so distressed. But the papers were signed, and there was no going back now. "I need to prove myself to me, and maybe to him too, to show him that I'm not... I'm not the screw up he thinks I am."

"Oh sweetheart, you know you're a good boy." She cupped his cheek with her free hand, her touch as light and loving as a feather kiss.

"I know you know that, Mom. I just have to show him." Michael knew he was far from a good boy. How many cars had he stolen since he was ten? Sure, it was for a good cause, but why was he even put into that position? "Maybe I can put some of my talents to good use in the military." He grinned as if the whole thing was a joke, but inside he cried for his mother and Nate. They had no escape, and he feared that after he was gone, Frank Westen would turn his rage on them in anger that Madeline had let her son join the Army. Never mind that he signed the papers. It would be her fault. It always was.

Westen sniffled, blinked, and opened his eyes. He didn't expect it to be lighter, and that Lieutenant Axe stared at him through the film of orange that visited them every day.

"You okay, Westen?"

"I'm fine, Sir." He sniffed. "It's, uh, just this dust. I think it's getting to me."

"You know something? I'm really tired of you calling me 'Sir' or 'Lieutenant' all the time." He dragged a sleeve over his forehead.

Westen stared at him, surprised. "Well, what should I call you, Sir? I'm only following proper..."

"Proper can just kiss my ass right now," Axe grumbled. "You've been working your butt off saving me. I think you earned the right to call me Sam."

"Sam, Sir?" He was still shocked.

"Not Sam, Sir. Just Sam." Axe grinned.

"I think you're delusional, Sir," Westen reached to pull Axe's arm away from his forehead to check his temperature.

"I'm fine. Fine enough, anyway, considering." He locked eyes with Westen and asked, "What's your name, man?"

"M-Michael. Staff Sergeant Michael Westen."

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere." Axe coughed. "Michael, could you please get me some water?"

"Sure... Sam." He tried the name on for size and received a warm smile in return. He brought a canteen to him. "Need help with this?"

"No, I've got it. Thanks, Mike." He took a swig and asked, "You don't mind if I call you Mike, do you?"

Michael grinned. "Not at all. It's not like I'm going to question a superior officer."

"Okay, maybe I am delusional, but I know one thing. Right now, you and I," Sam broke to cough again, and when the bout ended, he continued. "One thing I know is that you and I are in a fight for survival. We've got to be in tune and as intimate as friends if we're gonna get out of this. So I'm counting on you to drop the formality. Can you do that, pal?"

"If we're doing it for our survival, I could do just about anything, Sam."

"Good. I'm glad we got that cleared up." He handed the canteen back to Michael and closed his eyes. "When are we moving?"

"The storm..."

"You said last night that if my fever didn't break, we were moving."

Michael gaped. "You heard that."

"You bet I did." Sam opened his eyes. "Now, I think I'm a little better, less hot, but who am I to judge? Check it."

With a nod, Michael retrieved the thermometer and stuck it into Sam's waiting mouth. He waited, took it and read it. "It's one-hundred-one point five or so. Slightly better."

"So we go."

"It's dangerous."

"How much more water and other supplies do we have, Mike? Thanks to me, I know you have to be going through the water like it's going out of style." He grabbed the front of Michael's fatigues and asked, "How much do we have left?"

"One and a half canteens. At the rate we're consuming it, that won't get us through another twenty-four hours."

A ragged breath escaped Sam, and he lay back on the pack. "I knew it. Get ready, we're going, and if I have to make it an order, I will." He paused for a breath. "And I'll call you Westen again."

Michael laughed. "You drive a hard bargain, Sam. Okay, I'll get our things together and we'll go."

"Now you're talkin'." Sam closed his eyes and rested while Michael prepared for them to leave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

When Michael had their gear packed, he unzipped the tent opening to find a wall of sand that poured inside. He quickly zipped it shut and turned to Sam. "Looks like we're not getting out that way."

"Well, if this thing is that buried in the sand, it's most likely not going with us anyway," Sam declared as he pulled his knife from its sheath and twisted the handle in his hand as he studied the blade. "We'll just tear our way out of here on this side."

"You're right." Michael took the knife from Sam and used it to cut a slit for them to escape. "Go on, get out there and I'll hand stuff to you." He gave Sam his knife back.

As Sam took the packs that Michael created from what they still had, it was obvious that staying put for a couple days left the two men with fewer supplies to haul when they finally left the temporary camp. Michael crawled out after the last bundle and stood against the wind.

"I think it's less severe today," Sam said, even as he wore the bandana around his mouth, hiking it up to his cheeks to try to shield his eyes somewhat. They both wore goggles, but the sand still worked its way under the seals.

"Yeah, maybe it's weakening, and we'll get lucky and it'll stop altogether." Michael checked his compass and turned his body in the direction they needed to go. "That way."

"Alrighty, let's do this." Sam forced himself to his feet, favoring his bad leg. "Mike, I... I lost my crutch in the sand."

"Don't worry. Maybe we'll find another one somewhere." He didn't really think they would, but he didn't want Sam to be concerned about leaning on him.

"Yeah, maybe." By his tone, Michael knew that Sam didn't believe it any more than he himself did. Sam threw an arm over Michael's shoulders and the two set out on a south south westerly course. Their bodies were perpendicular to the blowing sand, which made it easier to walk. Still, it was slow going with Sam.

Michael estimated that they made a mile in three hours, and he kept a close watch on the compass to be sure they didn't veer off the path he chose. Sam was exhausted, and through his clothing Michael sensed his temperature rising again. "Let's stop and rest," he said to Sam. "I'll put up a little shelter from the wind."

"How are you gonna do that?"

"Sit down, and I'll hold up a blanket. Grab one of those canteens and finish it, and have some of those nuts. You need fuel to keep up your strength."

"And you don't," Sam asked, his eyes blinking against the grit that blasted the goggles as he looked up at Michael. "If I'm snacking, so are you, pal."

"SEALs," Michael sighed. "Just a bunch of bitchy little girls."

"Hey, I haven't complained that much, have I?"

"No," Michael replied. "I was just making a joke."

"Mike, I'm not being bitchy when I'm telling you that you need to fortify yourself. You're not infallible."

For the life of him he couldn't imagine why Sam was so worried about him. He wasn't the injured one. He could walk for miles in this storm without effect. What he chose to ignore was that Sam was right. He couldn't keep pushing himself and expect to make it through without sustenance. He wasn't superhuman. When he thought about it and watched Sam eat, he had to admit that it looked pretty good. "You're right, Sam. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. Rangers are just cocky."

Touché, Sam. Touché. Michael grinned. Under the impromptu protection, Sam took his fill of water and ate more than Michael expected, downing a packet of almonds and another of dried fruit.

"You must be feeling better."

He glanced up at Michael and smiled. "This is the first time since we started this mission that I've actually felt hungry. So I guess that means I'm improving." The happy expression faded when he said, "But that doesn't change the fact that I can't walk without help, and I'm dragging us both down."

"Don't even start with me, Sam." Michael pointed an index finger at him. "I hate repeating myself, so I'm not gonna do it. I swear next time you even start, I'm gonna smack you and I don't care if you outrank me."

"Oh, throwing that rank thing in my face again." Shaking his head and letting out a deep breath, Sam retorted, "I bet you get off on showing up your superiors, don't you, Mikey?"

His mouth twitched. "I don't."

Sam laughed. "Liar. Hey, that's okay. Somebody's gotta do what the rest of us wish we could." Crumpling up the wrappers, he shoved them into an empty pocket on the pack. "Some of us are too regulation to go off the rails." He looked at Michael. "You're flexible, you think well outside the box. Commanders hate guys like that because they won't color in the lines, but when it really counts, they're invaluable. And for me, right now, you're priceless, Mikey."

"Thanks, Sam. I appreciate that."

"Anytime, brother. Now, are you ready to go, or did you want me to switch with you so you can have a breather from this storm?" Michael balked, but in the end Sam tried to pull rank on him, saying, "If you can do it, so can I."

Sam leaned on his good leg and held the blanket up for Michael to take shelter and eat. He grabbed one of the MREs and scarfed it down as fast as he could because he didn't want Sam to have to stand there longer than necessary. When he was done, he packed up the blanket, slipped one pack on and Sam took the other, despite his protests. They were getting to where all Sam had to do was give him the look, eyes narrowed and lips set into a determined line, and Michael gave up trying to change his mind. At any other time, he would have laughed. With their lives on the line, he just hoped that Sam wasn't pushing it too hard.

As the afternoon wore on, the sky lightened in a gradual process, and instead of a constant barrage of sand that reminded Michael of when he and Nate threw shovels of it at the beach and blinded each other, it lessened until it was more like a snowstorm.

"How... how far do you think we've gone," Sam asked.

"You need a drink, don't you."

Sam glanced at him but didn't say anything. Michael nodded and stopped walking. Sam leaned into him and almost sent them both crashing to the desert floor. With one arm around Sam's waist, he reached for the last canteen. He brought it up to Sam's hand. "Twist that cap off and drink."

He followed Michael's instructions and let the warm water cascade down his parched throat. When he stopped, he took a deep breath behind the bandana, setting off a coughing fit. The canteen teetered in his hand, and Michael grabbed it before it spilled the rest of the contents. He capped it, choosing it over keeping Sam upright. The other man slid to the sand and held himself up with his hands planted on the surface while he coughed and choked on the swirling sand.

"Sam, get up. If you get up over the sand, you won't breathe in so much." It was like talking to a wall. "Sam, come on, get up." Michael reached for Sam's arm as he took a huge, shuddering breath and pitched forward into the dune. "Sam! Sam!"

Michael rolled him over and would have breathed a sigh of relief that Sam was still breathing, but he didn't need to take in any more sand than he already had. He looked around in vain for a solution, and the only thing he could think of was to carry Sam over his shoulder. His back could file a formal protest later. Right now, his friend needed him in order to survive. They had maybe eight miles to go to reach that highway. Michael didn't know how they would make it in the storm but if it let up, maybe he could get Sam on his feet again and hobbling along beside him.

"Let's go, Sam. You're hitching a ride," Michael said as he got Sam into a position where he could get a shoulder under him. Standing would be difficult, if not impossible, with the weight of the man and his pack. He couldn't do it. His knees collapsed, and he wound up on all fours gasping. He tried twice, but without success.

We have to lighten our load. Michael assessed the contents of their packs. He left extra clothing behind but kept the food, medical supplies, and water. Even that novel he'd been reading sporadically while Sam was out, he left it behind. He would buy Sam a new copy when they got back to civilization. To be on the safe side, he buried the pack in a dune, and the wind did him a favor by covering his tracks. With only one pack now, and Sam's back free of any load whatsoever, Michael was able to get him over his shoulder and with a yell, he stood. Sam stirred, but he didn't regain consciousness. It was just as well. He didn't need him throwing them off balance.

The storm was letting up little by little, but the loose, shifting sand made it difficult to walk. Until he spent time in Eastern Europe during his first tour, Michael had never had the displeasure of trudging through snow. The sand he navigated now was very similar, and just as draining. He lifted his knees high to plod through it, each step jarring Sam. Now and then he moaned, but he didn't awaken. He was probably too weakened from the morning hike and needed a good, deep sleep.

Michael wasn't sure how much longer he could keep walking. He tried distracting himself from the increasing pain in his shoulder from hoisting Sam over it, letting his mind wander to home and the beach. He could almost hear the seagulls screeching overhead as they fought for scraps of peoples' picnics. He and Nate were notorious for leaving half uneaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on their paper plates while they ran back to the surf. Their mother shouted at them to be careful, that they shouldn't swim so soon after eating or they'd cramp up. He and Nate ignored her. It had never happened, so why worry?

One day, however, Nate was grinning one moment, bobbing in the surf, and the next, he went under. He came up sputtering, crying for help. "Michael! Michael! Cramp! I got a cramp in my foot!"

Michael came to the rescue, throwing an arm around Nate under his armpits and pulling him back to shore. Once on dry land, Nate walked it off and their mother praised Michael for saving his brother's life. He didn't know why his mom had to make such a big deal out of it. He just did what had to be done.

He imagined that somebody would probably want to give him a medal for saving Sam. His commanders liked to do that sort of thing, but he could care less. He didn't do it for the notoriety. It was part of the job, that was all. They would have to get out of this first, of course. The way he was starting to feel, Michael began to question the likelihood of that happening. Without warning, his knees buckled and he landed hard onto a dune. Sam's body rolled off his shoulder and he planted himself stomach down on the slope. The warmth of the sand seeped into his clothing. It felt soothing, and he fought to keep his eyes open. A nap would have been good right about then.

"Mike. Mikey, wake up!"

"Huh? Wha... Sam." With alarm, Michael sat up and stared at Sam. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, except for the leg." With a smirk, he said, "I thought I was gonna have to try to carry you for awhile."

"What happened?"

"I don't know, brother. I woke up and you were out like a light. We were both covered in sand, so I'm thinking you passed out awhile ago."

Michael checked his watch. A couple hours had passed. "Dammit, I wasted so much time."

"No, Mike, if you needed the rest, you needed it. Don't beat yourself up for that." Sam raised his face toward the sky. "The storm is getting lighter anyway. It was a good thing we stopped for a break. Now that I've had a rest, maybe I can try to walk for awhile."

Michael glanced at Sam's leg and noticed that it was bleeding again, and he knew he didn't have enough supplies to completely re-dress it. "No, you can't walk on that. Look at it." He stood and beckoned for Sam to stand as well. "Come on, you're taking a ride on the Westen express, Sam. No arguments."

Sam groaned in protest, but before he could put up a fight, Michael got his shoulder against Sam's pelvis, bent him over and lifted him in one smooth movement. "You let me know if you need a break, okay?"

"Oh yeah, you do the same, Mikey."

Michael felt refreshed from his nap, certain he could make at least another mile, maybe two, before he had to put Sam down again. With the wind taming and less sand blowing, it would be much easier hiking soon.

"Hey Mikey, you ever have to carry someone like this before?"

"Only in training, Sam."

"Oh, well, you do it really well." Sam's hand patted Michael's back. "Just wanted to let you know that, pal."

"Thanks, Sam." As he continued to walk, Sam blithered on with abandon. Either his fever was rising and he was getting delusional again, or the blood was rushing to his head making him say stupid things.

"This reminds me of a TV show I saw once. The cowboys were stranded in the wilderness, they lost their horses, and the one guy was shot up. The other one picked him up and carried him back to the ranch." Sam said. "I think he sang some weird song. How'd that go, Mikey?"

Michael tried not to laugh. "I have no idea, Sam. I guess I missed that one."

"Oh, too bad." He paused and shifted slightly. "Hey, you know any good cowboy songs?"

If I did, I sure wouldn't sing them. Aloud, he answered, "Sorry, Sam. I'm drawing a blank."

"I think I know one. Just gotta remember it." He cleared his throat and tried to sing, but his voice sounded gravelly. "My boots have... no, that's not it... let me think... My horse wears spurs... no, wait, that's not right. Mike, help me out here, brother!"

"Sam, I'm sorry, I don't know the song." He stopped and shifted Sam's weight on his shoulder. "Maybe you better just be quiet for awhile, okay? I'm having enough trouble carrying you as it is." He winced, realizing he shouldn't have admitted that Sam was a heavy load.

"Well then, let me down. Maybe I can walk for awhile."

"No."

"If I'm such a burden, drop me, Mike. The storm isn't so bad now, you can leave me, get help, and I'll stay here. I promise." Sam's voice took on an almost whining tone. Michael shifted him in a sharp, abrupt juggle that caused Sam to cry out. "Hey, that hurt!"

"Just don't argue with me, try to rest, and in a half hour or so we'll stop and take a break. Okay?"

"Okay dokay." Sam's body went lax and he let his arms swing behind Michael.

Michael's knees felt ready to give out again, but as he noticed the sky lightening in the west, a sign that the storm was abating, he spurred himself on to make some progress before nightfall. He'd studied the satellite images of the desert before this mission, and if they were truly on the path he expected them to be on, perhaps by nightfall they could find shelter in an old homestead. The horizon was visible like a view through thick lace curtains. He saw hope there, and it beckoned him.

He began to keep track of his steps, counting them off as a rough yard. When he had enough, he chalked up one mile in his head. His knees almost screamed in pain and his back grew weary with the load. One more mile, then he would rest. He took a step and his knee gave out, his and Sam's bodies dropping to the sand.

"Hey, woah!" Sam grabbed for something to steady himself. "You okay, Mike?"

"Yeah, Sam. Just lost my footing there," he lied and stood again. He glanced over his shoulder. He couldn't see Sam's upper body because the pack was in the way, but he felt where he grabbed. "Uh, Sam, you mind getting your hands off my ass?"

"Oh, Mike! Jeez, I'm sorry. I needed something to hold onto so I didn't go down."

Michael wondered if Sam's face was as red as his.

"Next time I'll just take a tumble, I swear," Sam said. After a few steps, he spoke again. "Hey Mikey."

He sighed. "What, Sam?"

"You know you have a nice ass?"

"Thanks, I guess." He shook his head and kept going. Hopefully Sam would remember none of this later. He'd never considered that maybe his new friend was one of those guys who... no, he wouldn't go there. He didn't wanna know if he was, because it would make his job even more difficult. Michael never swung that way and would never even consider it. He liked his women as women. Sam was married, if the ring was any indication, so Michael hoped he was just going down the wrong path with his imagination.

Sam let out a deep sigh, causing Michael to falter a step.

"You okay, Sam?"

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"Thinking about what?" He probably didn't have any business knowing, but he asked anyway. After all, they were friends now, not just superior and subordinate.

"I was thinking about Amanda, my wife," Sam answered. "I haven't seen her in... ohhhh... three years, Mike. She left me, you know. She couldn't stand me being gone so much, and when I went home, I'd get called to duty on the fly." He swallowed. "The mission always came first, and she didn't understand that. It's not like I could say 'no', you know?"

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"You got a girlfriend? A wife?"

"Neither at the moment, and I've never been married."

Sam let out another deep sigh and patted Michael's arm. "Keep it that way, brother. You'll be much better off that way. I mean, with me, if something happens and I die or something, Amanda won't care. She'll probably be glad to be free of me."

"Sam, come on..."

Interrupting him, Sam spoke with a voice full of sorrow. "Trust me, Mike. If this is your life, don't get involved with a woman, at least not on anything less than a super... superf... supercalifragilistic..."

"You mean superficial?"

"Yeah, you know what I mean. It hurts less."

Michael read the heartache in Sam's words, and he felt sorry for him. Thankfully, Sam didn't say anymore. He fell silent, and Michael trudged on with his words bumping around in his head. There was no special woman in his life, but he'd met one that he would have considered. Samantha. Just the sound of her name in his brain made him smile. But Sam was right, he could never choose her and then set her as second place behind his career. It wasn't fair to her. He was better off not getting involved at all, or keeping it shallow. God knew there were plenty of women out there who would be too happy to fulfill his desires, if only for the short term.

He wondered if Sam ever took that route since his wife left. He still wore the ring, so maybe not. "Sam?" No answer. "Hey, Sam?" Michael shook his head. He was better off not asking. Maybe, if their friendship went beyond this crisis, some day Sam would talk about it. Until then, it was none of his business.

Michael lost track of his steps. He had no idea how far they'd gone. All he knew was that his body ached all over and he was working on sheer willpower to keep moving. The sandstorm was nothing more than a few wisps of grit in the air now, and in the west the sun was setting in a blue sky turning darker by the minute. In a little while he would set up a camp, get Sam to eat something, and then they could rest. Sam had been quiet for awhile, and Michael was beginning to get concerned. He decided to stop, lowering him to the ground without knocking his head on the hard packed sand. He cradled Sam's head and rested it on the surface.

After shucking the pack, Michael approached him with the canteen. Sam was warm again and not sweating. He could have kicked himself for not stopping sooner and forcing some water into him. "Sam, wake up. You need to drink something." He didn't respond, so Michael wet a cloth and ran it over his face. "Come on, Sam, don't play dead on me now. We're almost in the home stretch."

Sam moved his head to the side, working out the kinks, and his eyes opened. "Mikey, did we make it?" His eyes opened wider beneath the goggles, and he reached up to pull them away from his eyes. "The storm. It's over!"

"Yes."

He turned his gaze to Michael, hope shining in his eyes. "Did you find an oasis or something?"

"No, but we're close to the road. Maybe another four miles or so."

The pleased expression faded from Sam's face. "I was hoping we were there and you wouldn't have to carry me anymore." He groaned. "I'm sorry, Mike."

"It's okay, it's not your fault." He slipped an arm behind him and helped him rise to a level where he could drink. "Take some of this water."

Sam accepted a sip, then pulled away.

"More, Sam. You're burning up again, and I should have stopped more often to give you water."

"I can't take it all. You... you need some too, Mikey. More than me, even. If you're going to get us to safety, you can't break down."

"But Sam, if I can't control this fever, you know what'll happen!"

Sam nodded. "I'll lose consciousness, slip into a coma, suffer convulsions. It's not pretty, but if you can't move, it'll happen anyway." He locked on Michael's eyes. "You know it's true."

The light was fading, and the air cooling. "Just drink a little more for me. Please, Sam?"

"O-okay." Sam took another swallow, closed his eyes and sighed. "You take the rest, Mike. Promise me."

"I'll take some, just enough to function. I'll promise you that."

"Anybody ever tell you that your a real pain, Westen?" Sam's voice faded and he fell into a deep sleep.

Michael decided to set up camp for the night and not try to move Sam. They both needed their rest. He tucked a blanket around his friend and took one for himself. He kept a foot of distance between them, close enough to get to Sam if he had a crisis in the night. He checked Sam's pulse and almost snatched his hand back when he felt how hot he was. They had to find civilization tomorrow. One more day like this, and Sam wasn't going to make it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Michael heard the low rumble of an engine in need of a good tuneup. A set of fresh plugs, some TLC, and it would be good as new. In his mind's eye, he saw the Charger, his dad's pride and joy that he was always puttering on. More like messing it up and making it worse. In all the time he owned it, Michael saw it on the road once, and then it died a half block from home. Frank recruited Michael and Nate to help him push it back to the garage. So, somehow Dad got the thing running. It sounds like crap, but it's running.

He opened his eyes and realized that it wasn't the Charger, and it wasn't a dream. Headlights pierced the night as the vehicle got closer, moving at a slow pace. Beyond the stuttering engine, he heard voices chattering in Farsi. He'd been learning the language, so he was able to pick up a few words here and there. What he heard was enough to strike dread inside him. They weren't enemies, but they weren't exactly friends, either.

"Sam, wake up. We've gotta move," Michael whispered near Sam's ear. "We've got company. Bad company." When he got no response, he placed a hand on Sam's chest and jiggled him, producing a moan of protest. A quick check of his forehead brought Michael a brief sense of relief. Sam's fever was breaking.

"You there," a voice called to Michael as he got to his feet. "You, American, yes?"

The headlights flashed on his uniform, making it obvious that he was. "What do you want?"

"We want whatever you got, friend," the man speaking stood in the back of a Jeep, and when it stopped a few feet away, he jumped down carrying an automatic weapon.

Michael gave him an easygoing smile as he replied, "Well, I got news for you. You'd be better off going back a few miles where we buried all the good stuff. We've got nothing here, just a half canteen of water, a couple MREs, and some snacks. Nothing worth raiding." His smile turned into a grin. "Unless you're that crazy about M&Ms. Me, I can take 'em or leave 'em, so..."

"Shut up!" The man approached Michael and swung at him with the butt of his gun, hitting him squarely on the jaw. Michael went down, stumbling over Sam's prone body. "We will see what you have." He spied the pack that Michael used to prop Sam up, and he pulled on the strap. Sam's body jerked and hit the ground.

"Ohhh, Mike, did you really have to do that," Sam groaned.

"Shh, Sam." Michael whispered to him. "Just lay there, don't do anything." He hoped these men would tire of their intimidation tactics, find out that they truly had nothing worth stealing, and take off.

The man finished throwing everything out of the pack, searching the bottom like a man frantic to find a lost object. He tipped it upside down and nothing came out but grains of sand. He threw it aside and growled, his hands grabbing his curling hair in frustration. "You have nothing we want."

"I told you that, but you didn't listen," Michael retorted.

"You Americans, you have guns, supplies we need!" He grabbed Michael and hoisted him to his feet. "You will tell me where you have hidden these things, and I will let you live."

Michael snorted. "Sorry, man. What you see is what you get."

Someone in the Jeep said something that to Michael's ears sounded like, "Let's just kill them and be gone."

The leader glanced at the driver, and Michael saw his moment to act. He spun toward Sam, leaning down to pick up his rifle, when he saw Sam kneeling with his own weapon up, trying to stand. Michael swung around with his gun aimed at the leader. A shot rang out from behind the driver, giving away his position in the dark. Sam shot first, and an agonized cry told them that he hit his mark. Michael fired on the leader, hitting him with a fatal shot before he could react. The driver shot at Sam, put the vehicle in gear, and backed up far enough to turn and head back the way he came. Michael aimed above the tail lights and fired several times, trying to stop the driver, but he sped off into the night leaving his two dead friends behind.

Michael muttered a curse under his breath. "We almost had a way to get to the highway," he grumbled. "Sam, you okay?"

With the Jeep gone, the desert turned dark again. Michael felt around in the dark for Sam or the flashlight, and he came upon the light first, so he picked it up and turned it on. Sweeping the area, he ignored the two bodies and searched for the only one that mattered.

"Oh no... Sam." Michael slid to his knees beside the crumpled heap and rolled him to his back. Outside of the flashlight beam, he saw something dark staining the sand, and his throat clenched as he finished turning Sam. "Noooooo!" His voice carried on the slight breeze as he let out a cry of horror.

There's no time for this. Have to stop the bleeding. Michael's head whipped around, searching for the meager supplies that the marauder tossed about like trash. A few yards away he spied the med kit, hauled himself to his feet, and ran to snatch it up from the desert floor. He returned and dropped to his knees, scrounging around with one hand for a pressure bandage while the hole in Sam's chest bled.

"This shouldn't have happened," Michael ground out. "You're wearing a vest for crying out loud!" But Michael knew that the body armor they wore wasn't fool proof. If it was a hollow point, or just at too close a range, a bullet could pierce the flak jacket, rendering it useless. At least it could slow a bullet down so it hopefully wouldn't do as much damage.

He stripped off the armor and ripped open Sam's now bloody blouse to discover not one but two bullets cut into his chest. One hit near his shoulder, missing his heart by a couple inches. The other was low and on the right side. Michael clamped the flashlight in his teeth and pulled out the supplies, assessing what he had left and what he could do. Only one of the wounds would receive proper attention. He didn't have enough to take care of both.

Okay, think Westen. Which one is more critical? The wound near his heart bled more, so he decided to attend to it first. He pressed on it, and Sam moaned and tried to move away.

"No, Sam, don't do that. Just bear it. I'm gonna get you patched up here, and we'll get help soon. Promise you won't die on me out here, okay? Promise me!"

Sam moaned out something that sounded like an oath, and Michael was satisfied. He cut away the t-shirt with Sam's blade and applied the pressure bandage. Sam's breath quickened with the new pain, but there wasn't anything Michael could do. He cut away the rest of Sam's t-shirt, folded it, and pressed it into the other wound. Sam writhed, but the fight to escape had gone out of him. He simply remained still and allowed Michael to do what he had to do. He found a small roll of gauze in the pack, so Michael used it to secure the t-shirt remnant. It wouldn't hold well or for long, but maybe it was long enough.

"I've gotta get you out of here. If we reach the highway, maybe I can find a signal on this radio and call for some help." Michael was so exhausted, but his mind was on only one thing: getting Sam to safety and adequate medical attention. He pulled on Sam's dead weight, grabbing his arms to bring him to a sitting position. Then he lifted him onto his shoulder, grabbed his rifle and the canteen, and started walking in the direction of the highway.

To keep his mind distracted so he wouldn't stop, Michael counted off his steps in his head. One more mile. Make it to one mile, rest, then another mile and rest. That's the only way this will end successfully.

"Mike. Michael. M-Mike!"

Michael heard his name being called as if he was in the middle of a dream. The voice sounded far away, the bearer stuttering it, and as Michael awakened, he realized that it was Sam, and he himself lay stomach down on the desert floor. His friend was sprawled beside him. "Sam." He half sat and rolled to his side. "What is it?"

"S-so c-c-cold, Mike." His teeth chattered. Michael turned on a flashlight and saw beads of perspiration resting on his forehead and rolling off his temples.

Michael pressed a fist to his mouth as his mind raced, trying to think of all his options, which amounted to zero without the right supplies. As he looked around, he realized he didn't even have an adhesive bandage, just the flashlight, a few weapons, and the canteen. Where had everything gone? He remembered the raid and how he picked up Sam and left everything else behind. He could have kicked himself for not being more cognizant of his resources, but it was too late now. "Okay, we've gotta get you up and moving. We need to find that road."

"I can't," Sam protested through gritted teeth. "Mike, please... just go. Get help."

"No, I'm not leaving you here like this." He sat closer to Sam and bundled him in his arms, because that's all he had left. He gathered Sam's damaged, blood stained blouse and buttoned it as a little protection against the cool night.

"You know... I f-figured if I was gonna die, it'd be on the water," Sam stammered. "I mean, I'm in the Navy, I'm a SEAL, it shoulda been some mission on the water." He took a shuddering breath. "Not in the middle of the freakin' desert."

"You're not going to die, not if I can help it." Brave words, but Michael had no idea how he was going to prevent it from happening.

Sam shook so hard, Michael thought he was convulsing, but it was only his body going into shock. He embraced him tighter, and without thinking, he rocked him like a child in his mother's arms.

"Does that help?" Sam didn't answer, and Michael felt despair settle in like a thick mantle. He checked Sam's pulse at his wrist, and he didn't like the pace or its weakness.

Michael depressed the button on the radio. "Alpha Home, this is Bravo Team. Do you read?" He received nothing but static. "Alpha Home, this is Bravo Team. Please respond." He tried changing frequencies, although the radio had been programmed to the one they'd been given for emergencies. He received no answer for each frequency he tried, and when the battery on the radio died, Michael threw it into the darkness to let out his frustration. He wrapped his free arm around Sam, holding him closer, hoping that they didn't have to suffer for too much longer.

Time dragged slowly and now and then Michael woke Sam to give him a sip of water. When he jiggled the canteen, it returned a hollow sloshing sound. The water was almost gone, and they still had so far to go. Frustration and a sense of impotence ground at Michael's resolve. He wanted to strike out at something in anger, but there was nothing around them. He shook his head, bowing it, wondering how long before the end came for Sam. He wondered if he had enough time to pick him up and run him, literally, the last miles to the highway. If he had to leave the rest of the gear, including the rifle, he would do it.

"Yes. It could work," he muttered. He steeled himself for the run of his life, trying not to think of how the inside of his mouth was as dry as cotton. He downed the last of the water and tossed the canteen aside in anger, as if it was somehow responsible for getting them into this mess.

He could almost hear his old man taunting him, saying, "You'll never make it, Michael. You're a loser, kid. You'll never succeed."

"I will. Even if it kills me," Michael replied, not caring if anyone heard. Somehow, he had a feeling that he wouldn't die before he completed his mission. He and Sam would survive. He hung the compass around his neck with the attached cord and checked it for the direction. Then he stuck the flashlight in his pocket.

Michael pulled Sam up to balance on his one good leg and he stretched him across his shoulders. Hanging onto his legs and arms, Michael started his trek. Unfortunately, he quickly learned that running with Sam on his back was more than difficult; it was downright impossible with the water deprivation beginning to affect him, and he felt all hope drain from him like rain off a tin roof. His eyes rose to the twinkling stars, and he froze. He saw something in the distance that looked like a streetlight, but that was impossible. They were in the middle of the desert. Then the light turned into two, then three, and they appeared to be floating in the air, bouncing with each footfall. His chest heaving, Michael worked to catch his breath. Sam moaned and shivered, the movements threatening to send him rolling off Michael's back to fall hard onto the sand. Michael held on tighter and looked up to see the lights growing larger.

Someone is coming. Oh my god, someone is coming! He let Sam down as gently as he could, then reached into his pocket and whipped out the flashlight. He turned it on and started waving it over his head like a crazy man, hoping to get their attention. For a second he thought maybe this was the enemy, or more raiders, and he was bringing even more trouble on himself and Sam. Well, if they were, they could just come and see for themselves that he had nothing. They might be executed, but at least Michael tried. He realized that the beams came from choppers, and they were coming from the south, not the north. As the helicopters closed in, he recognized the sound of a Chinook and an two Apaches. He continued signaling them with wider sweeps of his arm, even though he felt certain that it would fall off the moment he stopped.

Sand blew up into his face as the chopper wash settled a short distance away and the Chinook lowered to the ground. Michael half laughed, half cried at the sight of it and the crew who disembarked and ran toward him. Four men suited for combat carried a litter in the center of their group.

"Sergeant Westen, are you alright," one of the men asked.

In the glare, all Michael could see were their silhouettes. "Who are you? Identify yourselves."

"Lieutenant Romano, I'm a medic. Step aside and we'll take care of this man."

"H-how did you find us?"

"After the sandstorm, a search party was sent out. We were on our way to the LZ and just happened to see you guys," the Lieutenant replied. "You're damn lucky, Sergeant!"

"I couldn't agree more," Michael said, raising his eyes to the sky in thanks. Then, concerned only with Sam's welfare, he stood by watching the medical team, still wary despite the patches and the insignia on their uniforms. His brow furrowed with worry when he studied Sam. His body was still. Too still for Michael's comfort. Romano pressed two fingers to his carotid and nodded to the others. Two men picked him up and laid him in the metal litter with gentleness and respect. Four hands reached for the handles and on Romano's direction, lifted him and ran Sam to the helo.

"Come on, Westen," Romano called after him. "Are you injured at all?"

"No, just dehydrated a bit," he replied. Michael forced his feet to move, and he trotted after them. Everything was a blur as he got into a jump seat near where the men slid the metal basket containing his friend. Romano and another medic hovered over him as the other two sat in their seats and buckled up. The helicopter rose gracefully into the night sky, and beyond the running lights, complete darkness swallowed the choppers. The medics worked by a low light, checking Sam's vitals, shining a light into his eyes, and swabbing his arm to stick in a needle. The IV was installed and left wide open. Michael knew that wasn't good. The medics covered him with a blanket and tucked it into the litter.

"Is he gonna be okay," Michael asked, his voice full of tension and fear.

"We'll do our best, Sergeant," Romano answered. "He's severely dehydrated and he's got two nasty bullet wounds, and this shrapnel in the leg. He's very weak right now." The medic glanced at Michael. "He's got an uphill battle."

Against regulations, Michael unbuckled his seat belt and knelt beside Sam's head. The medic placed an oxygen mask over Sam's face and gave Michael a disapproving eye. Michael only stared back, wordlessly daring him to say something. Romano backed off and continued his work.

Michael lay his hand on the top of Sam's head and spoke to him. "Sam, you listen to me. I didn't carry you all this way to have you go and die on me now. You hear me?" Michael swallowed back the emotions. "You may outrank me, pal, but I don't care. I'm ordering you to hang in there and fight this. You're too strong to give up now. I know."

He lost track of everything he said. For all Michael knew he could have been babbling in Farsi all the way back to base. When they arrived, more hands pulled the litter out of the Chinook and laid it on a gurney that they wheeled away faster than Michael could run at the moment. He sat on the edge of the open door and jumped down to follow.

"Sergeant, wait," Romano ordered and held him back.

"I want to go with him," Michael said, keeping his voice just short of begging.

"I know you do. You need to get yourself checked out first. They'll be stabilizing Lieutenant Axe and then he'll go to surgery, so you won't be able to see him for awhile anyway." He gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, he's in good hands."

Easy for you to say. Michael followed the medic to a different building where a nurse waited for him. She smiled at him and said, "Sergeant Westen, we're going to take good care of you. I want you to sit up here on this table and take off your blouse and t-shirt, okay?"

Inside, he groaned, but Michael put on an amicable smile for the nurse and did as she said. In his head he counted the minutes until he could see Sam, enduring the poking and prodding, squeezing and tapping, and even let them load him up with an IV to replace lost fluids. He almost drew the line at being assigned a bed, but when he lay between the sheets on the comfortable mattress, he succumbed to a deep desire for sleep. He didn't wake up until late the next morning.

His first lucid thought was of Sam. Michael raised his head and glanced around at the beds in the half full ward. A couple of nurses stood at one end talking, and one of them met his eyes. She spoke to the other before standing and approaching him with a warm smile.

"Sergeant Westen, look at you." She said as she stopped at his bedside. Wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm, she asked, "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Okay." He waited while she took his blood pressure, and his eyes wandered up to the IV bag hanging over his bed. It was almost empty.

"That's your second one," she said as the velcro ripped and released the cuff from his arm. "You were very dehydrated, but then, that's not unusual when you spend a few days in the desert."

"Am I okay otherwise," Michael asked, meeting her eyes. He caught sight of her name plate. Her last name was Roth. "Lieutenant Roth?"

She answered, "Yes, Sergeant, you've got a few bruises and cuts, but you'll be okay. We'll probably observe you for a day and then release you."

"What about Sam? I mean, Lieutenant Axe?" Michael swallowed when he saw the quick change of her expression from pleasant to worried and back to a mask of sweetness.

"He's in surgery, Sergeant. He was shot twice and had the shrapnel in his leg. It was buried deep from what I understand."

"I know. You forget, I was there, I saw it happen, and I did everything I could to take care of it and get him across that desert." Michael's voice rose as he spoke.

Lieutenant Roth placed a soft, gentle hand on his shoulder and spoke to him in a low tone. "It's okay, Sergeant. No one is condemning you. We'll let your commanding officer know you're awake, because he left orders to be informed of your condition as soon as you became conscious. He wants to talk to you, I'm sure, and debrief you on the situation."

"Of course." Michael threw his arm over his eyes. After so long in the storm, his eyeballs still felt scratchy.

"I can put some drops in your eyes if you like," the Lieutenant volunteered with a cheerful voice.

He pulled the arm away and replied with a small smile. "Thanks."

Her smile widened. She turned on the ball of her foot, hurried away and returned with a small bottle of eye drops. "Okay, open up, Sergeant. This will make those beautiful blue eyes of yours feel a lot better."

Michael raised an eyebrow. Was she flirting with him, a non-comm? She probably said that to all the injured men, sweet talking them into getting better. Whatever her motivation, he enjoyed it and did as she told him. His eyes did feel better afterwards, and he closed them to let the drops take effect. He must have fallen asleep, because the next time he opened his eyes, he found Colonel Tucker standing near his bed.

"Westen, you're awake. How are you feeling," Tucker asked, and the man appeared to be genuinely interested in Michael's health. That's one of the reasons Michael liked serving under Tucker. The man demonstrated that he cared about the men beneath him.

"Sir," Michael stiffened, his best rendition of attention that he could muster being in bed.

"Oh, relax, Son," Tucker said with a chuckle. "I don't expect my injured men to follow protocol. Not after you've been through hell and back." He pulled a chair from nearby and sat. "So, tell me what happened out there."

Tucker was in for a long narration as Michael reported in detail from the time of the failed extraction to his and Sam's rescue. Tucker sat without interrupting him, soaking in every word, nodding now and then, his face showing that he understood the rigors that the men endured. No doubt he must have been through something like that in his career. When Michael finished, he pressed deeper into the pillow, wishing the Colonel would leave and let him get some rest. He was wiped out.

"That was quite a feat you performed, Sergeant. I'll be sure to let Lieutenant Axe's commander know what you did."

"Sir, it's not necessary. Sam is as much of a hero as I am. We were just trying to make it back alive." Michael's eyes slid closed despite his best efforts to keep them open.

"I know, but he'll still want to know."

Michael heard scraping and cracked his eyes open enough to see Colonel Tucker stood. His commander placed a hand on Michael's shoulder.

"Take it easy, Westen. You come back to the unit when you're cleared for duty. Until then, relax and take advantage of the little vacation."

The corner of Michael's mouth tipped up. "Thank you, Sir." Tucker's feet moved away, but Michael stopped him by asking, "Sir, have you heard anything about Lieutenant Axe's condition? The nurse wasn't very cooperative."

Tucker's soft chuckle crossed the space between them. He understood the camaraderie that developed between the two men during their ordeal. "The last I heard he was in recovery. He's going to be airlifted to Germany once he's stable. After that... depending upon how he heals, he'll either go back to another SEAL team or be sent home."

Michael frowned, recalling that everyone from Sam's team had been killed, and he briefly thought of the friends in his own. "Thank you, Sir. Is... is there any chance I can see him before he goes?" Michael looked into Tucker's eyes, begging for the opportunity to see Sam one more time.

Tucker smiled and nodded. "You got it,Westen. Don't worry, I'll be sure you can see him soon."

"Thank you again, Sir."

"No, thank you, Westen, for coming back alive and bringing Axe with you." With a wink, he turned. "This'll get you a nice commendation, you know." He raised a hand and waved as he hurried out of the ward.

"I don't care about the commendation," Michael muttered. "I just want to see my friend."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Watching Sam sleep on the pool table, recovering from the surgery Dr. Jed performed to save his life, Michael felt a sense of deja vu. Although far different, this situation reminded him of that time in Kuwait, searing it into his brain all over again. Flashes of a younger Sam interspersed with the graying old friend who lay still on the dark green felt, fighting for his life. Michael was glad he remembered that he and Sam had the same blood type. Back then, he couldn't donate because of his own weakened condition. This time, he drew it directly from his own veins and watched it flow from the thin tubing to Sam's arm. He probably gave more than a pint, because he still felt a little woozy. It didn't matter. If necessary, Michael would have given a gallon to save him.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them, and the day the nurse wheeled him to Sam's bedside came back like it was yesterday. He was alarmed at all the tubing and machines, but even more that Sam was so pale, he almost disappeared in the stark whiteness of the sheets. Sorrow twisted his gut, threatening to make him lose the first meal he'd had in two days. Yet he kept up a brave front for Sam.

"You can stay as long as you like," the nurse said. "As long as you don't get him upset."

She walked away and Michael stared after her. What about him made her think he would upset Sam? He shook his head, turned back to his friend, and bided his time until Sam opened his eyes. He had a long wait. Michael reached for his hand and gripped it, feeling the warmth, but it wasn't from a fever. He studied the lines leading over Sam's head. A unit of blood hung from one hook, and two other bags occupied more hooks.

A nurse stopped on the other side of Sam's bed and checked the monitor that blipped out every one of Sam's heartbeats. She checked the leads on his chest, satisfied that they were secure, tested his blood pressure, and moved away.

"Wait, please," Michael said, and she stopped. "Can you tell me how he's doing?"

The nurse eyed Michael and took pity on him. "Lieutenant Axe is recovering from his injuries. The bullets were extracted, the shrapnel removed, and we've got him on an aggressive antibiotic treatment to fight off the infection. It's going to take awhile before he's back on his feet, but we're pretty optimistic that he'll recover." She gave him a smile.

"Thank you." The nurse moved on to the next patient. In the small ward, every bed was occupied, and each man obviously suffered from severe wounds. Michael released Sam's hand but kept his nearby, the other gripping the rail, wishing that he would awaken so he could talk to him.

The mission was over, like other missions that Michael had been on with different branches of service, but this one was unique. He'd forged a bond with Sam, and he hoped that when the man regained consciousness, he would recognize that this was more than just a friendship created by crisis that lasted only as long as the moment when they were in it. Michael grew weary of waiting and was about ready to give up when Sam's arm moved a fraction and touched his hand. He raised his head to watch as Sam showed signs of becoming aware of everything around him.

Sam's eyelashes trembled, the muscles around his eyes twitched, and he moaned and let out a breath. His nose moved involuntarily when he sensed the tube delivering oxygen through his nostrils. Still, he took a deep breath from it and shuddered. His free arm moved up over his head, stretching, but a sharp pain forced him to grimace as he set it down on the mattress.

"Sam," Michael spoke his name softly, risking someone hearing him address a superior officer like a friend. "Sam, it's me. M..."

"Mike?" Sam's voice cracked, the tone rising as if he couldn't believe his ears. His eyes slipped open, tiny slits surveying the man before him. When he recognized Michael, a wide smile broke out on his face and he opened his eyes completely. "Mikey, you're okay."

"Better than you are, that's for sure," Michael retorted and dared to stand so he could get closer. Hovering over Sam, he asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Like a cheap pincushion," Sam replied and tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. "I think... someone better talk to the staff around here about this crappy morphine. It doesn't work."

Michael glanced up at the smaller bag. It was almost empty. "I'll talk to the nurse and have her replenish it. I'll be right back." Michael got into his wheelchair, backed up into the aisle, and wheeled it down to the nurses' station with haste. A few minutes later he returned with a nurse carrying a new bag.

"Sorry about that, Lieutenant," she addressed him as she stepped by Michael and changed out the bag. "This should have you feeling better in no time." She glanced at Michael, saying, "Try not to keep him awake too long. Lieutenant Axe needs his rest."

"I promise," Michael said before returning his attention back to Sam. Grinning, he said, "You've got it pretty good here. I swear, the nurses in this ward are a lot cuter than over where I am."

Sam smiled and his chest jumped as if he attempted to laugh again. The pain stopped him. He took a few breaths before speaking. "Did you get shot, Mike?"

"No. They're just treating me for dehydration and exhaustion, that's all. It's nothing serious. You, on the other hand..." Michael cut himself off, regaining his composure. "I was almost ready to give up, Sam. I just sat there in the desert with you in my arms waiting for the end."

"I know. I heard you, talking to me, telling me everything was going to be okay. All the while I sensed you didn't believe a word you said."

"Sam, I didn't say anything. At least, I don't think I did." He looked puzzled, trying to remember.

"It doesn't matter," Sam said, waving his hand and dropping it back to the mattress. "You got me through this, Mike. I never would have made it without you, and..." He took a breath, replenishing his strength. "I don't think this is over, our friendship that is. I... I want us to keep in touch. If we never bump into each other again while in service, then in the civilian world I want to meet again."

"Me too," Michael responded, blinking away the emotion misting his eyes.

Sam raised the tube bedecked hand and squeezed Michael's. "We're like brothers now, man. Some day, we'll work together. I've got... got a feeling it's gonna happen." He sniffled. "So take care of yourself, because I don't wanna have to swoop in and save your sorry butt on the fly."

Michael laughed.

"I'm serious. A guy's gotta be prepared to rescue you."

"You're not exactly low-maintenance either, Sam." Michael replied with a chuckle.

He held up an index finger. "Just wait. We'll see who's more trouble. Mark my words."

A small smile played on Michael's lips as he focused on the present and waited for Sam to regain consciousness. After all they'd been through the past six years, he realized that his friend was right. Everything they did, all that Sam sacrificed for him, was because of Michael's undaunted obsession to get back into the CIA. He'd given much more than Michael ever did in those few days they were stranded in the desert. Donating some of his blood was the least he could do. He would finish this, and make things right, just as he promised Sam. Even at his own expense, because at this point, what happened to him didn't matter anymore. He nearly lost his best friend, and the love of his life. For them, his mother, and Jesse, he would keep them free and fix everything. And some day, they would all be together again.


End file.
